


196 - Self-Destructive Reader Needs an Intervention

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, body pos, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts "I have a really bad habit of basically picking at my skin, especially my arms and a little on my face, and it's caused me to have scars and red bumps all over my arms. I can't really help it, it just sort of happens when I'm stressed. Idk if that's very clear for u, but if u can, I'd love to see if u could incorporate this into a fic somehow and bring awareness to it I guess" and a four message long request from Ella about one of Van's long-time friends becoming self-destructive.





	196 - Self-Destructive Reader Needs an Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Mental illness. Self-harm in the form of picking at skin when anxious/upset. Implied past domestic violence.

The second hand of the clock moved in a gliding motion, rather than a static tick, tick, ticking. It made it seem like time was moving faster than it should have been. You were losing minutes while you refused to answer the question. The doctor sighed and shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. The leather squeaked under her weight as she realised you weren't going to break.

"Y/N? I can't give you another prescription unless you agree to speak to someone. Me. A psychologist. Someone," she repeated.

All you wanted were more sleeping pills. It was hard to get your eight hours without them. By three am you'd usually pass out into a hot, sickly nightmare, and you never woke up rested.

There was nothing left to study on the clock face, so you turned to your arm. You'd been picking at one particular freckle for a couple of days, and it was almost completely dug out of your skin. A scar would form in its place.

"Y/N?" she asked again.

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine,"

"You don't look fine,"

"You don't know me," you countered, still not making eye contact.

"I've known you for a couple of years. I feel as though that counts for something. And, you're not sleeping, so that is a good indicator that everything isn't okay," she observed. Valid points.

"I just miss my friends. They'll be back soon,"

"You miss Van?"

She had been your doctor long enough that she knew about him. One time, when you were throwing up, he was the person that drove you to the surgery. She and him had smiled to each other in the waiting room. Didn't matter to you; she shouldn't have asked about him.

You stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll just smoke weed to sleep. It's fine. See you next time," you said in a voice that sounded distant and nasty. You'd disconnected from it, hurt by your own bitterness.

"Y/N,"

"Bye," you cut her off, closing the door behind you.

You drove straight home and found the flat empty. Housemates somewhere else and left alone, you raided the cupboards in search of anything to ease the pain. A chemically volatile mix of vodka, paracetamol and a joint later, you were passed out in bed, nursing Van's hoodie he'd left for you.

…

The few days between the doctor's appointment and Van's homecoming were a muddy mess of trying to not die. You floated between bed and bathroom, and was brought food by Zakia and Reece. They were good housemates that put up with a lot from you, you thought. Like everyone in your life, they deserved better.

Van had been home for twenty-seven hours before coming over. You weren't his top priority, just an old friend that he used to fool around with. Still top five though, he made the effort to drive all the way over when you weren't answering his phone calls or messages.

The weight of his body was on top of yours before you'd even woken up.

"Y/N!" he yelled through the layers of blankets between you. "I'm hommmmeeeee! Let's go for a drink!" He pulled you up and kissed your forehead. Studying your expression for only a second, his quickly mirrored your sad. "Love, what's wrong?"

Van had always been a source of comfort. You had never been able to lie to him. Those two truths meant that when he asked the question, you broke. Sobbing into his arms, he just rocked you gently. He was never great at talking about the bad in life. Van could never understand why people couldn't just take it and push forward. He was naïve like that, but he wasn't a bad person. He loved you, crying or not.

"I thought you'd be all good by the time I got home," he said. "Heard you and what's his face split up. He was no good. Thought you'd be better off without him. This about him?"

Van had heard right. What's his face and you had broken up, and it had been a violent parting of ways. An apt ending to a miserable, vicious and altogether fucked up relationship. It was hard to tell if the time with him had made you that broken, or if it was the ending of it.

Through all the confused thoughts and mixed up feelings, you knew you didn't want Van to think you were sad about another boy. So, you shook your head and pulled yourself together. Game face on, you wiped away your tears and smiled. He looked confused.

"Sorry. No. I'm okay. Just tired. Got my period or something," you said.

"You said that's a myth, that moody thing," he replied skeptically.

"Mustn't be. You said something about drinks, yeah?"

You jumped out of bed and started to get changed in front of Van. He'd seen you naked a million times before. Nothing new. It felt good to show off in front of him, really.

"Zakia says you've been not good," Van said.

"Just haven't been sleeping good. Nothing to worry about,"

"What 'bout this then?" he asked, reaching out and pulling you over to him by the arm. He held it out on display. The new scars and broken skin were more than evidence that something was brutally amiss. You took your arm back and quickly put on a long sleeved shirt.

"S'nothing. I'm fine, Van. Really. Don’t need you worrying about me. Seriously," you said. You forced yourself to make eye contact to try to calm him. He wasn't buying it, but he didn't know what else to do. He stood up and pulled you into a hug.

…

Once Van had eased the transition from bed to the outside world, it was simple to repeat the behaviour. You started to go out more and more, and less and less was it with good friends. People you'd known from ages ago started to reappear in your life. They brought cheap booze and sunrise bedtimes and missed university deadlines and nothing but trouble. You couldn't remember the last time you spoke to your family, and Zakia said that your doctor had called requesting an appointment. You'd not seen her in months, not even to ask for more sleeping pills.

Van had settled back home on his time off but still flew here and there for small commitments and one off shows. You watched him in interviews online and allowed yourself that one small pure thing. Everything else in your life was slowly turning rancid. Let Van be the one clean thing. He seemed oblivious to your downward spiral after all. But, like so many things, you were really wrong about that too.

On a bus home at 7 am, you were a picture of ripped stockings and running eyeliner. Someone sat in the seat next to you, but you kept your eyes shut. Maybe they'd pick a new seat once they realised you'd probably not been home to shower.

"Y/N?"

Eyes open, you looked at Benji. What was he doing on a bus at 7 in the morning?

"You look absolutely fucked. Do you need help?" he asked gently, kindly. You scoffed. In more ways than you could ever begin to imagine. You shook your head. "Van said you were not doing good, but I thought he was just being dramatic 'cause he loves you so much,"

"I'm fine," your voice was croaky. "In fact, probably best I've ever been. Having a good time, you know? Seeing lots of friends. Doing lots of crazy fun things,"

"I heard you dropped out of uni,"

"I'm deferring for a while. Just not sure that kind of thing is for me," you replied. Even still-drunk and running on no sleep, you could hear how truly fucking full of shit you sounded.

"Van's really worried about you. Think he was gonna call your mum or something," Benji said, still starring at you in shock and pity.

"He better not,"

"Yeah. I told him you'd fuckin' lose it if he did. Don't think he knows what he's meant to do though,"

"He doesn't have to do anything. I'm fine. He's not my boyfriend or anything. Doesn’t have to do anything," you said with a shrug, looking out the window. You were nowhere near your stop. "This is my stop."

You left Benji on the bus and walked the rest of the way home.

…

With the newfound knowledge that Van was more perceptive than you gave him credit for, and that he was having conversations with people about your mental health, you stopped seeing him altogether. 

At some point, you worked out you were in love with him. Of course you were. He was the constant good throughout your life. He was unconditional love. But out of all the people that deserved better than you, he was top of your list.

So, when he came knocking on the door when Zakia and Reece were out, you stood on the other side hyperventilating.

"Y/N! I know you're here! I called Zak!"

You waited three minutes. Everything went quiet. You tiptoed to the door and crouched down to look under. No boots. No body sitting on the floor waiting. Van had done that multiple times before. You opened the door and stepped out into the hallway of the apartment building. Standing flat against the wall next to the door, Van snuck in behind you before you could do anything about it. You stood in the hallway staring at him.

"Why you avoiding me? What did I do?"

"Nothing. I'm not avoiding you,"

"What do ya call ignoring my calls and messages then?"

You sighed, walked back in and closed the door. Van followed you through to where you were in bed. He burrowed under the blankets and pulled you close.

"You can't keep this up you know,"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, knowing full well exactly what he was talking about. You closed your eyes and let him rock you. When he brushed his fingers over the marks on your arms you whined and went to move away.

"Don't, Y/N. Why won't you just let me help? I know you've never been good at talking about any of this. And, neither have I. But I'll do better if you do," Van said, taking your arm back and holding it in a tight grip. It felt like order in a sea of chaos.

"Why are you being so intense? You don't owe me anything,"

"You're one of my best friends, Y/N. We've known each other since we were tiny little kids running amuck. That's how you're acting now. All carefree, like you're invincible. Dropping out of uni-"

"Deferring," you corrected.

"Whatever you wanna fucking call it. You're a mess and something happened and you need to talk about it or it's gonna kill you. It's killing me to see you like this."

If he could just be in love with you then everything would be okay. The wounds would heal, both metaphorically and literally. He'd kiss your scars like he was doing under the blankets while you chose to stop speaking in a childish act of pointless rebellion. Everything could be okay again, if only.

…

Something was happening. Something wicked this way comes. Zakia and Reece had been extra nice, like they were trying to keep you from hating them. They'd done something or they knew that someone had. Van was doing the same. He was attentive and had essentially moved in with you. You had to stop going out because he wouldn't let you; an anchor to the safety and wholesomeness of home. They'd all conspired to do something which they thought of as helping, but they clearly knew would make you implode.

The trigger knocked on the door on a Sunday afternoon. Everyone had gone out; Zak and Reece on a date and Van had said he was just popping to the shops, back in half an hour.

You sat silently with your mother drinking tea for five minutes before she spoke.

"I know you don't want me here,"

"I don't care where you are, Mum. I just don't need you here,"

"Your friends think you do. Van does. That boy has looked after you his whole life. If he says you're not okay, I'm inclined to believe it."

Another five minutes passed. You did what you did best, avoided questions and stared vacantly at objects in the room, mindlessly picking at your skin.

"He'll be back soon," you said.

"I know. I told him he didn't need to leave at all. You wouldn't talk to me without him anyway."

She was right. Not another word was spoken until Van came back. He sat next to you, looking to see if you were angry, if you'd hate him forever for his attempt to save you from yourself. How could you? What other option had you left him, or your friends, with? He took your hand to stop you from scratching.

"What do you want me to say?" you asked them.

"You don't have to say anythin', we just wanna know how to help," Van replied. He'd said that before. You knew that's all any of them wanted, but somehow that love didn't make you feel less… alone… or afraid or rejected or untrusting. You shrugged, leg tapping with the energy usually exerted against your own skin. 

It was hard to know what to say. There wasn't anything objectively wrong with your life anymore. Things were looking up. It was just trauma you had to work through, but the only help you could get with that was professional. Maybe you'd make an appointment with your doctor if Van agreed to never call your mother again. You broke the silence in the room with that.

"I'll… I'll go see my doctor, okay? If you just all give me space, I'll do that."

An adequate bargain, your mother left you in Van's care.

Settled on the couch, Van made tea. When he put only one mug down on the table and kissed your forehead, you felt cold panic. He walked across the room and picked up his jacket.

"Are you leaving?" you asked, your voice throwing fear and desperation out into the air. He looked confused, then slowly nodded.

"Space… You said to give you space," he replied, coming back over to you. You'd stood up and when you moved he did too. You crashed into his arms.

"I don't want space from you," you said but the words started to get all messed up between choking sobs. You were exhausted from the sad and from the hurt and from trying to pretend to not love Van. Something had to be given up, but you weren't in control of the sad or the hurt. It was only the pretending you could do something about.

Van held you tight. "I don't want space from you neither. All I fuckin' do when I'm not with you is worry about you, yeah? I love you so fucking much. I just need to know how to make you alright again."

You passed out before you could say anything more. When you woke up, you were in bed and Van was snoring next to you.

…

If you opened your mouth, you were sure to fuck it all up. Things had been going okay. Not good. Not at all good, but okay. You'd seen your doctor. Vegetables and brown rice had been consumed; alcohol hadn't in a couple of weeks. Van was around a lot. The skin on your arm was healing. If you opened your mouth though, secrets would spill and they'd ruin it all.

Zakia's family were coming over, so you spent the night at Van's. You were sitting on the couch in a silent room patting Mary when Larry came home. You jumped when he spoke; you'd not noticed his arrival.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya. What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing. Mary," you replied, waving one of her paws at him in an attempt to seem normal.

"Do you want the telly on or something? Music? Where's Van?"

"He's in the shower,"

"Right… Let's put something on, huh?"

You watched him find something to watch. Re-runs of Masterchef seemed safe. He called out from the kitchen, asking if you wanted tea. When Van returned to the room and saw the tea and television on, he looked around.

"Larry's home?"

You nodded. He went off to find him. When he returned, Larry wasn’t with him.

"What’s he doing?" you asked.

"Early night."

Van sat next to you and tucked you both under a blanket from his bed. His mismatched socks pocked out the bottom from where his feet were up on the coffee table. Mary wriggled under the blanket and Van chuckled as he trapped her there. When she barked he let her out and watched her trot off to her food bowl in the kitchen.

"He doesn't have to stay in his room," you said.

"Yeah, he knows. We ain't lying. He's really going to bed. It's almost ten," Van replied. Last time you checked it was just after seven.

"Oh."

You listened to Van narrate the fuck-ups of the contestants on the show. The best thing he'd ever cooked was perfectly round pancakes and sometimes he made really good scrambled eggs. By no means was he a master chef, yet he felt like he was entitled to talk shit about every single dish plated. You giggled as he did, and he seemed pleased that he was able to make you happy like that.

"How you feeling, Y/N? Doing better, yeah?" he asked as a contestant boiled egg in already boiling water. Van shook his head at them.

"Yeah, I guess. Why?"

Because he cared, obviously.

"Just checkin' in. Don't want to pressure you or anything. Don't want to give you more than you can handle," he replied, not entirely focused on his words. He wasn't being careful. You sat up.

"What do you mean?" He looked over at you. The question went unanswered. "Pressure me to do what? What do you mean?" you repeated. You could feel panic brewing and Van could see it happening. He closed his eyes for a second as he thought, then looked back up at you.

"At some point, we should maybe talk about us," he said slowly. The calculated words were back.

"Us?"

"Yeah. Like… How… you feel about me and how I feel about you."

Your heart collapsed in on itself. There it was. The confession that he knew you loved him, and that he didn't love you back. When he thought you were ready for it, he wanted to establish the boundaries of your friendship. The spongey bubbles in your lungs started to pop and breathing was going to get real fucking hard real fucking soon. Your fingertips cried out to scratch the itch in your arms, your legs, your face. Every inch of skin was hot and needed attention.

You went to stand, to run, but Van grabbed you before you could move. It was a mistake and you screamed straight away. He didn't know what to do to help, but his fear that you'd hurt yourself kept his arms around you. Kicking and punching, it was a miracle you didn't hurt him. He was half on top of you when your screams made audible words.

"Let me go!" you cried, tears streaming down your face. His eyes were watering.

"Y/N, just… fuck! Calm down! It's okay. It's gonna be okay. I promise. I promise!"

"No, it's not! It's never gonna be fucking okay!" If Larry had fallen asleep, you'd broken that state. Your hands formed fists and you hit Van's chest with almost no force. A small, hurt movement. You stopped moving, went limp and still, but cried. "It's never ever going to be okay," you whispered.

"Why? Why won't it? It's getting better already," Van said, pulling you up and onto his lap. He held you so tight you thought you were going to be squeezed to death. It would have been a perfect way to go, so you didn't try to escape the crush. Everything was too fucked up to save and you hurt too much to bother pretending anymore.

"I love you. I love you so fucking much that it hurts. And you're never going to love me like that back and nothing's ever going to be okay," you said, voice scarily calm. Van's hand was patting your hair, but it went still. You braced yourself for the breakdown. His breathing was heavy.

"You're… you're in love with me?" What kind of absolutely fucking fuck asks for clarification at a moment like that. Yes, yes you were fucking in love with him. You always had been. How could anyone know him and not love him? You nodded. "Since when? Why didn't you say anything?" You didn't reply, but he continued before you really had time to anyway. "Don't matter. Y/N. Look at me." He moved to hold your face in his hands. His thumbs ran over your cheeks and he was pretty close to crushing your skull. You could feel the shake of his hands. "I love you too. I've… Fuck!" He looked around the room and you could see him thinking too many things at once. He was overwhelmed. "I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember. Why do you think none of the others worked out? Why I never bothered much? Who the fuck do you think all the songs are about? How… You've always been way too fuckin' good for me, Y/N. Jesus fucking Christ."

You shook your head, knocking his hands away from you. You tried to crawl away from him but he held you in place. There wasn't any energy left to fight it. Your mind straight up refused to process his words. It was clear he wasn't lying. But you also didn't know what it would mean to be able to love Van and have him love you back. Honestly, all your hope of recovery were pinned to that make-believe life. If it came true, you'd have to try harder to be okay and you weren't sure that you could do that.

"No," you whispered, "You deserve someone who-"

"Don't. Don't even do that. You fuckin' know me, Y/N. You know I'm not perfect. I forget dates and important things. I don't care much about all that politics stuff I should. I don't say sorry as much as I should. Start too many fights. Can't shut my face. Don't plan ahead. Bit selfish. You ain't perfect, but that doesn't matter either. People don't get loved 'cause they're good people. We just… get love. You deserve love because you're a person, and so do I know, you know what I mean?" Yeah, you knew what he meant. Badly articulated, but an incredibly beautiful and valid point. "So… Don't. If you love me and I love you, that's that. It's easy. Done, yeah? You got some trust issues and shit to work through, I get that, but… It's done, love."

It was never going to be as simple as "It's done, love," but it was pretty close.

There would always be that edge of darkness in you that was swimming behind a dam wall. But, with Van more than a friend, with Zak and Reece and Larry and your doctor as supports, the wall was strong and unlikely to give way easily. With midnight kisses and daylight pots of tea, with proactive coping strategies and pretty eyelashes and stupid jokes and scrambled eggs with paprika, you could spend more time being okay than being fucked up. You deserved love, because everyone does, but even if you didn't, Van would have showered you with it regardless. A single spectacular, healing thing.


End file.
